I Am Not What I Am
by Stanleigh
Summary: SET PRE-1x08. Pythagoras trusts his friends with his life, but not with his secrets. His inferiority complex compels him to remain silent in the very moments when he needs them the most...


_DISCLAIMER: I own none of the 'Atlantis' characters, locations etc.; they belong to the BBC. All I own is the plot of this story._

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: The events in this fic have deliberately been written implicitly. Make of them what you will- the individual is encouraged to interpret them as they see fit and come to their own conclusions. Trigger warnings for assault; please proceed with caution if you believe this may affect you._

* * *

"_For when my outward action doth demonstrate the native act and figure of my heart in compliment extern, 'tis not long after but I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at. I am not what I am._" – _Othello_ by William Shakespeare, Act One, Scene One

* * *

The rains were coming.

The air was thick, muggy; it weighed upon the soul as heavy clouds rolled over the roofs of the city. The heat was unbearable. Windows had been thrown open, doors left ajar in the hope of tempting in a non-existent breeze. In the bazaar, red-and-white striped awnings shimmered in the mist of the heat, sagging and drooping under the pressure of the temperature. The last few shoppers were gathering up their purchases as stall-holders hastily began to pack up their wares, glancing up nervously at the growling, greying sky that stretched like a canvas overhead.

The sweat was drying on Pythagoras' back. It was uncomfortable, itchy. His fringe was matted, damp clumps sticking to his forehead. He pulled absently at a loose thread on the hem of his trousers, knees drawn up to his chest as the coolness of the whitewashed stone wall seeped through the back of his tunic. The ground was hard and dry, but oddly warm, and a lone beetle peered out from beneath a crate.

Pythagoras reached up a hand to wipe the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. His jaw was throbbing. He swallowed, and a bitter, coppery taste hit the back of his throat. Rolling over to the left, away from the mouth of the alleyway, he retched. A fork of lightning, pale against the murkiness of the sky, flashed warningly. The beetle made a sharp U-turn and scuttled frantically back to its crate.

Pythagoras leant gingerly back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as a sharp pain shot up his spine. He gasped involuntarily. A rumble of thunder bubbled its way through the imposing layer of laden clouds and grumbled gleefully. He pushed the sweaty strands of hair back from his forehead, scratching the skin there until slender red lines stood out starkly against his pale complexion. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, gritting his teeth as the slight movement prompted another shockwave of pain to twist its way up his vertebrae.

The first drops of rain began to fall. They peppered the top of Pythagoras' head; the water was cold, yet not at all refreshing, and he shivered as it soaked through his clothes. There were shrieks and shouts, laughter and cheers that rolled into one large bundle of noise that seemed oddly distant and detached from Pythagoras' ears. He shook his head slightly, as though to clear it, and for a moment his vision rotated on its axis, as though the world had somehow tipped sideways. He threw out a hand to steady himself, long fingers scrabbling at wet stone. Another flash, brighter than the first; another rumble, that swelled steadily into a great roar whilst the rain beat down harder and harder, colder and colder. Pythagoras, eyes screwed tightly shut, hauled himself to his feet. The world lurched again, but he was ready this time, and breathed as slowly and as deeply as he could whilst it righted itself. He rolled his shoulders back, swallowing, and the blank mask slipped quietly back into place.

He had the ten minute walk home to get his story straight.

* * *

Jason swore under his breath as Pythagoras limped through the front door, clutching his side with his swollen jaw set firmly in a hard line.

"Jesus Christ, what's happened?" he gasped, dropping his half-eaten hunk of bread onto the table and rushing forward to help him into a chair. Hercules poked his head out of his room, eyes widening at the sight of Pythagoras' torn tunic and bloody lip.

Pythagoras shook his head violently, holding his hands out in front of him as a kaleidoscope of images stampeded their way to the front of his mind. "Nothing's happened," he said flatly, batting away Jason's eager hands, "I'm fine."

Hercules made a wholly unattractive noise that seemed to be halfway between a snort and a cry of disbelief. Pythagoras shot him the kind of look that scorches.

"You're bleeding!" Jason cried incredulously, shoving his face right into Pythagoras' to get a closer look. "Your jaw is swelling. And your eye's turning purple."

"I slipped and hit my head. It's raining outside, if you haven't already noticed." Pythagoras made to move towards his sleeping quarters, but Jason, swearing again, grabbed his shoulders and forced him down into a chair. Pythagoras strangled the agonised noise in the back of his throat as he impacted with the wooden seat; he pushed Jason away, anchoring himself to the edge of the table. "Don't fuss, please," he begged, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, "I'm fine. Honestly."

Hercules raised his bushy eyebrows sceptically before striding towards the shelves, pushing clay pots aside with little ceremony. "Where do you keep that ointment stuff?" he called over his shoulder. Pythagoras shook his head again, so hard that his vision blurred.

"I don't need it," he insisted frantically.

"I'm sure it was in a brown pot the last time we used it-"

"Hercules, I'm fine!"

"Jason, do you know where it is?"

"Look!" Pythagoras shouted. He jumped to his feet, and immediately wished he hadn't. It felt as though his spine were on fire. He staggered backwards, calves hitting the chair behind him as black spots erupted in front of his eyes.

"Pythagoras? Just sit down, for God's sake-" There were hands on him then, large and calloused and rough, too rough. They were gripping his shoulders, trying to force him down, trying to subdue him. The panic rose in him like bile and he lashed out blindly, his arm connecting with something warm and solid that yelled in pain. The hands released him, and Pythagoras shuddered in relief. But reality flooded back, bitter and sharp, and guilt crashed over him as he saw Jason clutching at his nose.

"What is your problem?" he demanded thickly, voice slightly muffled by the arm covering his face. "We're only trying to help!"

"I- I'm sorry," Pythagoras stammered helplessly. He realised he was shaking. "I don't know what… I just saw you coming at me and I panicked and _I'm sorry_." He knew that Hercules, still standing stoic and silent by the shelves, would be glaring at the back of his head. "Are you alright, Jason?"

Jason nodded, dropping his arm and circulating his nose gingerly. "'Course. But you didn't half clock me one."

"I'm sorry," Pythagoras said again. It was with a fresh surge of panic that he felt a burning sensation behind his eyes. He swallowed fiercely. He couldn't crack, not here, not now… "Do you need me to take a look at your nose?" he asked desperately. He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off the pain, the terror that was clawing at his insides, choking him, suffocating-

"Bloody hell, Pythagoras, it's _you_ who needs looking at!" Jason cried, dropping into a chair. Pythagoras remained standing, poised to flee if necessary. "What happened?"

"I told you, I slipped-"

"Do you think we're idiots?" Hercules snapped suddenly, and Pythagoras jumped. "Black eye; swollen jaw; cut lip; by your limp, I can imagine you've bruised your coccyx… you've been in a fight, haven't you?"

The surge of relief was so intense that Pythagoras nearly lost his balance again. Both men were staring at him expectantly, but the mask had been re-fixed; he could do this. He'd learnt how to lie at his mother's knee, after all.

"Perhaps," he said evasively, glancing around the room just enough for it to seem suspicious. Hercules- as he had hoped- grabbed the bait with both blundering hands.

"What happened?" he demanded, pulling out his own chair and sitting down with a sigh. Next to him, Jason's brow was furrowed in concern, his nose still slightly red.

Pythagoras bit his lip, brain whirring as facts and figures were pulled from thin air and inserted into a timeline, the jigsaw of a story beginning to take shape.

_Maintain eye contact. Avoid specifics. Keep events simple, but enough to satisfy._

He opened his mouth.

The rain beat down like bullets on the stone roof. The thunder roared its displeasure.

* * *

_Rushing. Frantic shoppers, haggard citizens, all eager to complete their errands and return home before the onslaught of rain begins. A scrum of flailing arms and kicking legs and hoarse voices. Pushing. Shoving. Shouting. Swearing._

_"Nato? Nato, darling, don't let go of Mother's hand."_

_"Two silver coins for a loaf that size? You're having a laugh, mate."_

_"One at a time, ladies, please- there's plenty to go round."_

_"Ileana! It's not what it looks like, I swear! I swear- OW!"_

_"I think you'll find that _I _was next."_

_"Get out of my way, you fool!"_

_Everyone is busy. Everyone is harried, glancing at the sky every few seconds. There are collisions- some are apologetic, some are angry, some simply keep going. The bazaar is alive with tension, crackling with apprehension as the first clouds roll over the city to lie like a thick, protective mantle. A warning of what is to come._

_Suddenly, there are hands. Grappling for his shoulders, gripping tightly, tugging fiercely. He cries out in shock, but the sound is drowned out by the tidal wave of noise that engulfs the bazaar. One of the hands leaves his shoulders and flies up to cover his mouth. His eyes widen in alarm. The other hand slips around his neck. The angle is awkward, and though he is struggling he is conscious of the fingers exerting a firm pressure on his windpipe. The first waves of fear swell inside of him._

_The temperature drops abruptly. He has been dragged into an alleyway; it is sheltered, untouched by the sun's rays. His back is slammed against cool stone, his head colliding with a painful thud. His eyes water and his vision slips sideways, and it's enough to distract him from his struggles. The hands have removed themselves from his mouth and neck, so he cries out again, but then one returns, balled into a fist, to connect with his right eye. His head cracks against the wall once again, and his vision crosses and swerves worse than before. The hands take advantage of his disorientation, and, with jolting force, they grasp his slender wrists in a bruising grip and slam them above his head. In an instant, they are both pinned in one large hand; the other has slipped down to yank and tug at the fraying hemlines of his clothes._

_He wants to scream. He wants to wrench himself free of these wandering hands. But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out aside from pained gasps, and he feels as though he has been frozen against this wall, unable to twitch or twist or fight._

_Is it over? There is no way of measuring the length of time that has elapsed, but suddenly, the bruising grip is loosening. One of the hands lands a final punch to his jaw for good measure, and, for the third time, his head hits the solid wall. In the haze of pain and confusion, he does not register the hot, putrid breath that reeks of spirits until it is right beside his ear. When he does, he is only able to distinguish one phrase, whispered in that tone of drunken contempt that he thought he would never hear again._

_"Filthy whore."_

_The hands are gone. Sweat is pouring down his back. His knees give out and he collapses, landing heavily. The pain of the landing is excruciating, and he barely strangles a scream._

_A scrum of flailing arms and kicking legs and hoarse voices. Pushing. Shoving. Shouting. Swearing. The tidal wave of noise still holds the bazaar firmly in its grasp._

_Gradually, the footsteps become fewer. The voices become fainter._

_Then, the rains come._

* * *

Medusa coos and exclaims over his wounds. He smiles easily, genially, because she's right: he looks infinitely more enigmatic with his black eye and his bruised jaw. The blood has stopped leaking from his mouth, and the bruises on his wrists are easily covered by long sleeves. His limp is heavy, but that will get him the sympathy vote amongst the girls, apparently. Sitting down is torture, but Pythagoras treats it like a game- seeing how long he can last each time before he has to dry heave into the bucket concealed under his bed. The lumps on the back of his head prevent him from sleeping, but that's secretly a blessing; sleeping leaves him vulnerable to the images that clank and tumble around his mind, haunting him, taunting him.

All three- Hercules, Jason and Medusa- were satisfied by his explanation of his fight with a drunken tavern customer. So if Jason's eyes linger a little too long on his limp, or if his eyebrows contract whenever he flinches at one of Hercules' heavy-handed shoulder claps, then so be it.

The mask was still in place. It had served him well in the past. As long as he remained focused- didn't allow his mind to wander, to brew or fester on whatever may or may not have happened when the rains came- then life ought to continue as normal. The four of them would continue to be embroiled in elaborate adventures, risking life and limb to fight the immoral and the unjust. He would cope, and no-one would be any the wiser.

_Chin up. Shoulders back. Straight spine. Bright smile. A cheery "Good morning, friends", and the new day begins._

_FIN_

___AUTHOR'S NOTE: Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading._


End file.
